


Fragile Lives

by kalypsobean



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Fourth Age, Gen, Post-Lord of the Rings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-17
Updated: 2016-12-17
Packaged: 2018-09-09 05:15:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8877409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalypsobean/pseuds/kalypsobean
Summary: Legolas visits Aragorn near the end of his reign, wishing that they had more time together.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nerroth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nerroth/gifts).



The reason Legolas had chosen to settle in Ithilien was simple; it was open to misinterpretation, and he was not inclined to correct those who thought otherwise, but it was known to those who understood him. Aragorn, for one, who had granted him the forest and only demanded he allow the army to use it as they rebuilt Osgiliath once again, and kept a watch on the Eastern border. It was a small price to pay, and the Elves who chose to follow Legolas were of a like mind, willing to mingle, albeit occasionally, with the Men who harboured the Lady Arwen in their home.

Some of them, Legolas thought, would choose to stay, if the choice were given to them. He did not discourage those who had come for that reason alone. He might have chosen it himself, if he had not seen the worst of human nature in his journey - he might have chosen to live within the city walls if he had not felt their fear and uncertainty crushing his spirit in the few weeks he had garrisoned there with Aragorn, before the end of the War.

He understood why his father had chosen as he did, but he did not have to like it; he came to Ithilien to get away from that, and those who came with him longed for a similar freedom, for sunlight and a chance to still shape the future of this world.

 

It was with knowledge of Legolas' distaste for such politics that Aragorn had allowed him Ithilien, and with so little in exchange. Even now, Aragorn understood him that much better than any of his kin.

If Aragorn's life were his own, things would be much different. Legolas had foreseen it, in Fangorn, before Aragorn had laid such overt claim to his heritage. They could have roamed the land of free creatures at their will, exploring the forests and passing through villages, amused by the folk tales that grew in their wake. They, too, could have been free. Aragorn, though, had made his choice; Legolas did not begrudge him that, but he sometimes felt grief for the loss of what might have been. 

 

He treads lightly enough over the rooves of the White City, disguising his approach for no other reason than that he can; it amuses him to move among Men without being seen, and it is reassuring that he, if the occasion arose, would be battle-ready. If there are fewer who can remark on Legolas visiting the King at such a late hour, then it is a welcome side effect. Suspicion is still common, after all, and Legolas doubts it will fully go away before all who remember the War have passed, one way or the other.

 

Aragorn's hair is grey, now, and Legolas still finds it surprising; he expects Aragorn to always be the Ranger he fought alongside, his hair matted and his face and hands covered in dirt, smelling sweetly of sweat and mud. He is always sharply reminded that Aragorn is King now, Elessar, when he sees an old man dressed in fur and robes enough that he could not react quickly without disrobing, living in halls of silent stone. 

"I see you are still adjusting, my friend," Aragorn says, though he remains seated, held up by pillows. "I thought you might come tonight. I had them leave the window open for you."

The window is merely a gap in the stone, a feat of engineering learned from the Dwarves, long ago. It is a joke, but Legolas only smiles. It is strange, for a Man to be so vibrant and then so frail; he can see he will lose Aragorn to the land beyond the circles of the world, sooner than even he prepared for, and he knows, because he is still the one who knows Aragorn best, that it is not unknown to Aragorn, though he may not yet know the day of his passing. Nobody else knows, Legolas thinks; Aragorn is hiding it, and in that, he is able to avoid feeling the cold touch of mortality too keenly.

This may well be goodbye. 

 

Legolas sits on the bed, drawing the curtains closed before he settles.

"Let us pretend we are both still young," he says. "We are in the wild, somewhere, and it is raining, so we have fashioned a tent from our cloaks so that we may stay dry. You have made a fire, and it is barely keeping us warm, but you caught a rabbit for our meal, because our supplies are low."

"We found a stream but the water was so dirty you insisted on boiling it first," Aragorn says, picking up the memory. "We gathered twigs to keep the fire burning this long, but they are too wet to burn well, and you are worried the hide will not dry well."

Legolas feels Aragorn lean on him, though with the blankets and the furs, it is only his hands and head that make contact. It is comforting, somehow, to feel weight on his shoulder, and to have his arm trapped beneath; it is a solid, tangible reminder that the things which Legolas remembers, that he shared with nobody but Aragorn, were real. 

"Let us be as we once were," Legolas says. "Not Elessar and the Elf Prince of Ithilien, but Legolas and Aragorn, roaming as Rangers of the North, free of all this."

"We were never free," Aragorn says, his laugh turning into a cough. "We were always beholden to our fates, and they found us soon enough."

"We could pretend, then." Legolas lets his voice go soft, not quite a whisper, but as if a melancholy song was so painful to sing it died in the air after leaving his tongue. "We could run, as if the wind would carry us away from obligation, even as if snapped at our heels and weighed on our packs."

"That we could," Aragorn says. "There was nobody to remind us, nobody to lead. But they were never too far away."

"Don't remember them," Legolas says. "Remember when you woke with the dawn, and watched the sky paint itself blue, and only then would you decide which way your feet would take you."

"We ran through the night, sometimes," Aragorn says. He sounds wistful now, as if the memories are close, but not quite in reach. It is like they are things Aragorn wants but cannot have. "Because there was nobody to make us sleep, and we didn't need to rest."

The only time they did that, though, was when they chased the Hobbits; until then, they had always rested, if only to sit by a fire and allow their boots to dry, and for Legolas to teach Aragorn the songs of the Wood-Elves, not known in Rivendell due to the schism caused by his forebears' stubbornness. 

He remembers Aragorn would fall asleep as he sang, as if there was something about the music of the Elves that reassured him, and allowed him to feel safe enough to rest without regard to his surroundings. It was the only time, perhaps, that he saw Aragorn unguarded. The years have taken that away, Legolas realises, as he looks down at Aragorn. Grey hair is one thing, common to the Men Legolas has seen born and die, but the years have also carved lines into Aragorn's skin. Once, they would have been covered by dirt, perhaps hidden entirely or made more obvious, and Legolas would not have noticed them, for they were not important. Now, though, they are evidence of the burden Aragorn was chosen to bear, and that he has done so for so long.

The only thing he can give Aragorn now is time away from those, to rest peacefully before the last journey. His singing has never been the kind sought after by other Elves, and he never learned an instrument, for his hands were at one with his bow long before he was grown, and there was no need for the finer crafts in a world at war, limited in purpose that his father thought them to be. He learned the songs for their history and the lessons they imparted, but now he sings them just to see Aragorn sleep as he once did, free of worry and the kind of responsibilities Legolas had evaded thus far.

 

It would not be long, though, Legolas knows, even as the lines thin out and leave shallow marks to say where they once were, and Aragorn sleeps. It would not be long before he would pass his rule on to his son, and with that, pass beyond the Circles of the World, on a quest without Legolas at his side. There is grief in that, he thinks, as it becomes truly dark, the candles flickering out and the stars covered by cloud. And yet, Aragorn will have memories, of then and of this, and perhaps, will never truly abandon this world.

 

"I wish we were always free," he says, slipping out from under Aragorn and arranging the pillows for minimal disturbance, "and that you should never have had to take on this duty." It was necessary, he knows; it was ordained by Eru himself, but in that, Aragorn lost something of himself, a part he could never reclaim. Legolas felt that loss keenly, but never so much as he does now, as he slips out the way he came, using the wind to tell him where to run. He is a prince with nothing to inherit, for his father is immortal, and so he could never truly understand the path Aragorn had taken, though he devoted everything to being as loyal a friend as he knew how. He didn't have to worry about taxes or rebuilding or treaties, because the Elves who followed him were like him, and those things were unimportant - they traded only for what they needed and trusted the land for everything else.

There would be nothing left for him, once Aragorn was gone. Arwen would follow, and any others who stayed would fade, until they were the stories in songs.

 

~*~

 

On the boat, he sleeps; the journey is long, and so long as he holds the intention of reaching the West, the boat will be guided there by the winds. He dreams, as he sleeps, and he sees Aragorn as he once was, but as more; it seems, that beyond the circles of the world, Aragorn is his true self, humourful and as wild as a forest without stewards, living by the grace of the land and clad in woven grasses and furs.

He expects to wake to white towers, and to see his mother waiting on the dock, but when he opens his eyes it is because the boat has hit something beneath the water and stilled itself. He is alone, and Gimli's belongings are gone, as if they were never there. But from the shore, he hears a shout, and sees Aragorn running towards him, clad in the skins and hemp as he was in the dream.


End file.
